


so much a man can tell you

by achilleees



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-23 02:53:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4860266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achilleees/pseuds/achilleees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Willas ties his cloak around her neck and thinks, well…</p><p>At the very least, Cersei Lannister is lovely in Tyrell green.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I promised this to a friend about 4 months ago (maybe 5...) and it's finally done (enough) that I'm posting it. I'm not THRILLED with the pacing but I've been sitting on it for too long and let's face it, it's not getting any better. 
> 
> Anyway! The prompt is, what would have happened if the Tyrells hadn't turned down Tywin's offer of Cersei's hand in marriage to Willas in Storm of Swords (pretty sure it's Storm of Swords, not Clash of Kings...). 
> 
> Title from "Kiss From a Rose" by Seal because hahaha that's my sense of humor.

Willas’ wife is wed in black.

He has not seen her in years, not since he was a boy and she was half a child herself, full of laughter and mischief and life. She was lovely then, a flower in bloom.

The flower wilts, now. But she is lovely still in mourning, grief carving stark lines into her face, her green eyes even bolder in their pain. Her hair is undressed and spills in tousled curls down her back as he undoes the crimson Lannister cloak from around her neck.

Yes, crimson, not black and gold. Nobody comments, though Olenna clearly itches to, the very small smirk on her face speaking the volumes that her mouth does not.

Willas ties his cloak around her neck and thinks, well…

At the very least, Cersei Lannister is lovely in Tyrell green.

 

 

The wedding is grim, nothing at all like the raucous celebration cut so tragically short the day before. Willas looks around the hall and finds that half the men there are unable to meet his eye, and the other half leer at him and look to his new wife with lust and violence on their features. Given the chance, they would do her harm, and they imagine him to be of their ilk. It sickens him.

Cersei will not allow Tommen to taste even a bite of his food before his Kingsguard try it first, but when Meryn Trant moves to take up her goblet, she shoots him a look of heavy disdain and drains the whole thing in one go.

Willas has to bite back a laugh of admiration and amusement. If his wife has ever known fear, she has learned to mask it.

They do not speak a word to each other throughout the feast. There is no music to fill their silence.

All along the high table of the dais, the lords and ladies idly chat, and Willas can hear Margaery’s sweet laughter as she coaxes Tommen into light conversation. From his other side, he sees his father and Lord Tywin engaging in stilted discussion.

While he watches, he sees Tywin cast Cersei a stern glance, and Willas knows that his good-father wishes that his daughter would suit his plans and charm Willas with smiles and conversation and wit.

But the former Queen Regent will not obey this order. She will wed the cripple, she will be exiled from King’s Landing and return with him to Highgarden, she will leave her last child behind, all on his orders – but he cannot make her smile as she does it. Some part of Willas wonders if she will ever laugh again.

If she does, it will be of her own will. Willas will not seek to command her to.

“You can go, if you’d like,” he says.

Cersei looks over at him after a delay that borders on defiance. “My Lord?”

“I understand that you do not wish to be here,” he says. “A mother’s grief is -”

“You do not understand,” she says. “You could never understand.”

Willas nods. “Aye, I would agree. I would not seek to claim… I merely meant, if you wish to leave, no one would force you to stay.”

“No one could,” she said. “But do you forget? I am the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, wed to the Whoremonger King Robert Baratheon for four-and-ten years. If you think I cannot bear to sit through one unpleasant feast -”

“I do not suggest that -”

“Or is my presence a shame to you?” She sneers. “The grieving mother is out of place at her own wedding, I see. I would not seek to make my husband a laughingstock. Would you prefer me to go?”

“I never said -”

Cersei stands, regal and cold as ice. “By your leave, my Lord.” She dips into a low curtsey and then sweeps out, her skirts swishing.

Everyone is staring, he can feel. Tywin’s frown is darker than ever.

Willas sighs, covering his face with his hands. With all his might, he curses this blasted throne that so many people covet for no reason that he can see, and his father for being weak enough to saddle him with this wretched woman just because hers was the last arse to have warmed it.

 

 

After the feast, Willas finds himself wandering aimlessly, exploring this Keep that he has heard so much about. He remembers his brother’s bedding with Lady Leonette – the laughter, the teasing, the sparkle in her eyes as he carried her into their chambers.

Cersei’s eyes may have sparkled once, but now they only know how to flash and spark. Did they brighten for Robert on her wedding night, or have they only done so for their mirrors on her twin’s face?

His exploration eventually takes him to the royal sept, and he looks upon the closed door, certain that he would find his wife behind it – the only person truly mourning that twisted menace of a son she loved so much.

He turns to go, not wishing to disturb her. The tall, dark-haired guard in front of the door snaps into action, though, misreading his intent. “Her Grace is mourning with her brother, you can’t enter.”

“I wasn’t going to… Her brother?” Willas furrows his brow.

“Aye,” the guard says. “Ser Jaime.”

“Ser – Jaime?” Willas’ eyes go wide and he looks past the guard at the door.

The guard smiles sourly. “Aye, and my Lord Commander ordered that no one enters the sept, so you’ll want to be turning away now, cripple.”

Ser Jaime, back in King’s Landing. Alone with his sister in the sept.

They wouldn’t. By the gods, would they?

Does he care if they do?

“Thank you, ser,” Willas says slowly, and he hobbles away, feeling more unsteady than normal on the cane he has used for years.

Ser Jaime, back in King’s Landing.

Olenna will want to be hearing that.

 

 

Willas sits on a bench in the garden, feeding one of the palace dogs bits of meat and trying not to miss Highgarden too much. Nobody had warned him exactly how King’s Landing smells.

He looks up at the sound of footsteps and nods to his father.

Mace fidgets with the cuffs of his heavy brocade tunic. “Not going to the trial?” he says, his ruddy face anxious.

“No, I don’t think so,” Willas says. “The less I know, the happier I will be.”

“The Queen Regent -”

“Former Queen Regent,” Willas corrects.

Mace nods. “Right, yes. She has composed quite an array of witnesses against her brother. I imagine the trial will be over before we know it.”

“This trial,” Willas sighs. “You know there will be another, of a different variety.”

Mace snorts. “Do I? Who would act as his champion? The dwarf is guilty in the eyes of the gods, any fool can see it.”

“Then there seems little point in holding a trial at all,” Willas says. He scuffs his good foot along the ground. He wants this whole farce to be over, he wants to return to Highgarden – with or without his gods-damned wife, it’s no concern of his.

But she will not leave until she has her brother’s head on a platter, he knows. And if he is guilty –

 _If_. It is a very strong if.

\- Willas hopes that such a day comes soon.

“Is that what you came to ask me?” Willas says. “If I was going to the trial?”

Mace’s eyes drop.

“Speak it,” Willas says. “Whatever it is.”

Mace swallows. “I… must ask, though I wish I need not. Have you – are you…?”

Willas clenches his jaw. “No,” he said. “I have not lain with my lady wife.”

“You need an heir,” Mace says. “That was the whole point of –”

“If it were only about having an heir, there are many other women you may have wed me to,” Willas says. He will forever wonder about Sansa Stark’s beauty, and her gentleness. “The woman lost her son but a sennight ago. Give the poor thing time to mourn before –”

“So you plan to?” Mace says, relieved. “After her grief has abated.”

Willas lets out a long breath.

“You must,” Mace says.

“I will not force an unwilling woman,” Willas says. “I am not Robert Baratheon.”

“I should hope not,” Mace says.

Willas smiles, conceding this point. Robert Baratheon never had any trueborn heirs of his own, after all. “When Cersei is willing, I will –”

“And when will that be?” Mace cries out, too loud, and Willas hushes him. “Do you wait for her to come to you? You will be waiting quite some time, my boy.”

Willas shifts, uncomfortable. “She is miserable. She stands trial against her own brother, her son is dead, her entire life is being taken away from her and she is being sent to –”

“This is not the first time she has left her home to be wed,” Mace says. “Will you beget an heir in her, or should I arrange Garlan to take command of Highgarden now and save us all the trouble?”

Willas snaps back. “You have nothing to worry about, my Lord,” he says stiffly. “Once these matters clear up, I assure you, I will give you your grandchild. But I will not force Cersei into such things when she is already enduring so much.”

Not least because he suspects she will bite him if he tries. She has lain passive beneath too many men before. That lioness is not going to be forced back in a cage if she can help it.

“Good,” Mace says after a moment. He shifts, clearly feeling guilty. “I… we will revisit this in time, I suppose. For now, I must attend the trial.”

“Be fair,” Willas says. “Be just.”

“In the Father’s name, I will,” Mace says, and he walks away.

 

 

“Not going to the trial?” Willas hears as he sits in the garden, sketching loosely at a desk he had brought there.

He looks up. His annoyance at the question fades when he sees the man who asked it. “Oberyn!” He rises to his feet as Oberyn approaches; they clasp hands. “I had heard that you were here, but I had not seen you.”

“Yes, I dislike the Red Keep and prefer to spend my time… indulging in the finer pleasures of Lord Baelish’s hospitality,” Oberyn says. “You arrived recently, then?”

“Only for the weddings,” Willas says. “Were you there?”

“Aye,” Oberyn says. “Yours was by far the less interesting, but I must say, I do not envy you your bride. She is a lovely little cunt, isn’t she?”

Willas looks around warily. Lannister men line the walkways – but Oberyn has always been half mad. “She is as lovely as she is charming,” he says.

Oberyn tips his head back and laughs. “Always the diplomat. How are you liking your stay here?”

Willas makes a face. “I do not see how these people stand it. The weather is all wrong, the food -”

“The accents,” Oberyn says, laughing more.

“The smells,” Willas says, grinning back.

Oberyn nods. “At least you are honest about something.”

Willas gestures for Oberyn to take a seat next to him. “I heard you are judging the trial. What do you make of it?”

“The dwarf will die,” Oberyn says, quite casually. “Your wife will ensure that.”

“Is he guilty?” Willas says.

Oberyn shrugs. “Who could say? The only girl I feel could answer that has fled King’s Landing. Poor little man, either way. Could you really –”

“Careful,” Willas says, because the next words to come out of Oberyn’s mouth are certain to be treason.

“Fair,” Oberyn says. “Anyway, someone’s head will roll for this, and if your wife is so convinced it should be her brother’s, who am I to stand in her way?” He grins, cat-like.

“Who indeed,” Willas says. He does not like the look on Oberyn’s face, but they speak no more of the trial after that. He supposes he will learn in time what that smile means.

 

 

Later that week, Willas is making his way around the stables, greeting each horse one by one, when a voice calls to him. “Not going to the trial?”

Willas takes a moment to roll his eyes before turning around, irritated by the questioner without even knowing his identity. When he sees Jaime Lannister standing there, his irritation only mounts. “My wife seems invested enough for the both of us,” he says.

Jaime’s smile never wavers, but Willas fancies he sees a flash of irritation in those green eyes. Good. “Oh, she certainly has an agenda,” he says. “How is your lovely wife? It feels like eons since I have laid eyes on her.”

“Lovely as ever,” Willas says. “A pity she is so wrapped up in this trial. I am sure you wish to spend as much time with her as possible, before she returns with me to Highgarden.”

“Indeed,” Jaime says, and smirks.

Willas only smiles brightly back. If Jaime thinks that he is so foolish as to not know who warms the sheets of Cersei’s bed each night, let him. Let other men be too proud to practice silence - Willas will bite his tongue over more poisonous subjects than this if it means leaving King’s Landing sooner.

The twins should be grateful. Willas has shooed away more than one dutiful maid from entering Cersei’s chambers in the early morn to stoke the fire. But he has seen how long a trial in King’s Landing can last - he will not allow another, equally scandalous one to tie him to this wretched city. Not when his own sister seeks to rule as its queen. Tommen Baratheon has such a lovelier ring to it than Tommen Lannister.

And to tell it true, he does not care. So long as Jaime does not put another babe in her belly, his wife can do whatever she wants with him.

“Well,” Willas says. “It was lovely speaking with you, Ser Jaime.”

“Indeed,” Jaime says again. “I look forward to a chance to see you again. In Highgarden, perhaps.”

Willas narrows his eyes.

“I am sure my nephew will wish to visit his mother from time to time,” Jaime said. “And what manner of Kingsguard would I be to allow him away from my protection?”

“True,” Willas says slowly. “You will like Highgarden. It is not half so small and cramped as King’s Landing. There is room to breathe. Lofts and hidden gardens where children get up to mischief.”

Too obvious, he thinks, cursing his tongue when Jaime’s gaze turns searching instead of smug. Then Jaime smiles. “Not so brainless after all, are you, Willas?” he says quietly. “Spineless, perhaps - but you have cunning, I will grant you that.”

“So kind of you to say,” Willas says.

“A pity,” Jaime says. “If you were but brainless, my sister might tolerate you. But spineless -” He smirks. “She will snap you like a twig.”

“A pity indeed,” Willas says.

Jaime narrows his eyes. “You are making me think fondly of her first husband,” he said. “At least Robert had bollocks.”

“I am sorry to disappoint you,” Willas says. “I understand, he seems an easy man to miss.”

Jaime gives a disgusted noise and walks off. He never did have the patience for this kind of battle of wits, preferring to trade barbs than platitudes. An easy mark if WIllas has ever known one.

Still, his smugness irritates Willas, and he grinds his teeth as he goes back to greeting the horses.

Willas is the nice son. Willas is pious and Willas is dutiful and Willas is good-hearted to a fault.

But Willas is Olenna Redwyne’s grandson nonetheless. And before he leaves King’s Landing, Jaime Lannister will regret crossing him, whether he knows it or not. Just as well he doesn’t - a lion without claws can still bite.

Willas narrows his eyes as he watches him leave. He hopes the trial ends that day, so he can leave King’s Landing far behind him. Cersei may miss her brother dearly, but Willas will feel no love lost for the Kingslayer, this prince of beasts.

 

 

He catches Loras outside in the practice yard. He knows better than to speak inside the walls of the Red Keep, where all the little mice and spiders crawl. “Brother,” he says.

Loras pauses as he reaches for his practice lance.

“I am very curious about your Lord Commander,” Willas says, very softly. “If you could tell me something about him - perhaps something not many men know - I would be eternally grateful.”

Loras shoots him a searching look, then he nods and takes up his lance.

Willas turns away, trusting Loras to know the meaning behind his request. He may not have their sister’s cunning, but Loras has his eyes and ears in the White Sword Tower, and if Willas was going to find any weapons with which to cut the Lion of Casterly Rock, it would be there.

Before he can make his way back into the Keep, Garlan finds him. “News of the trial,” he says, his expression troubled. “Your lady wife is not well pleased.”

Willas’ stomach drops.

 

 

He finds Oberyn outside the trial room. “They say you have offered yourself as Lord Tyrion’s champion.”

Oberyn hooks his fingers in his belt and rocks on his heels, endlessly confident. “Aye, and what of it?”

“You put me in a difficult position,” Willas says, biting his lips. “My wife would not mind seeing both of you lose your heads, but I do not like how callously you offer it up.”

Oberyn grins and claps his shoulder. “You fret too much, my friend. Drink some wine, be merry.”

“You fret too little,” Willas says. “I have seen that Mountain. He is not human.”

“Oh, he is only a man,” Oberyn says. “And all men must die.”

“Including yourself,” Willas points out. “This is madness. For what purpose do you - Ah.” He sighs. “I see.” Elia Martell, the flower of the Dornish court. Too delicate by far for King’s Landing. He is sure Cersei would agree.

Oberyn’s smile turns wry. “Come, do you think I care so much for the dwarf’s crooked little head? I enjoy his wit, and I sympathize with his loathing of his sister, but it is Cersei’s champion whose fate interests me yet more. That man’s skull will decorate Sunspear, I vow it, here and now.”

“I believe you,” Willas says. “And you need to be the one to remove it, I assume.”

“I would settle for nothing less,” Oberyn says.

Willas squeezes his hand. “Then what can I say but good luck to you? For all that you prolong this trial I loathe so much, I wish you the best. Be careful.”

“I am beginning to feel offended,” Oberyn says. “You have no faith in me!” He starts to walk away, but backwards, so he stays facing Willas all the while. “I will flatten this Mountain. I promise you that.”

“I believe you,” Willas says.

 

 

For all his promises, Oberyn dies in a wash of blood and brains. Willas will never forget the sound of his skull cracking, nor the anguish in Ellaria’s cry as it pierced the air.

For Joffrey, Willas is not entirely certain the dwarf deserves to die.

But for Oberyn, he would see that crooked little body hang.

 

 

Oberyn, Tyrion, Gregor, Cersei – Willas’ mind is a tangle when Loras comes to find him, such that he completely forgets the task that he had put his brother on until he is reminded of it by the anxiety on Loras’ face. “Brother,” Loras says softly, uncharacteristically graceless as he slumps next to Willas on the bench.

“Hm?” Willas looks up.

“I overheard -” Loras looks over his shoulder.

“Too loud,” Willas murmurs. “Be very quiet. Do not move your lips.”

Loras nods. “I overheard…” He swallows, hesitant.

“If you are going to tell me, then tell me,” Willas says. He whistles over one of the horses and holds up a sugarcube, stroking its neck so it stays in place in front of them, blocking them from sight. “If not, stand and walk away now, and forget what you heard.”

Loras nods, an iron certainty hardening his jaw. “I overheard my Lord Commander with Lord Varys, planning to break Lord Tyrion out of the black cells this very eve, past midnight.”

Willas leans back. He will need to think about this. But first -

“You fear you have broken your Kingsguard vows by betraying your Lord Commander?” he says.

Loras nods again.

“You have done right,” Willas says. “The dwarf has killed one king. If free, he might kill another. You are protecting King Tommen by revealing this to me, and it is Tommen, not Ser Jaime, to whom you owe your allegiance.”

All of the misery and uncertainty dissolves from Loras’ expression.

“Now forget what you heard and return to your duties,” Willas says. “I will not betray you, and I will not reveal Ser Jaime’s plot. But I will do what needs to be done to protect His Grace. Now go.”

“Thank you, brother,” Loras says, thick with gratitude. He kisses Willas’ hand, relieved.

After he leaves, Willas leans back, steepling his hands in front of his face. He did not attend the trial for fear of learning for certain what he now only suspects. But still, he is quite sure -

Tyrion did not kill Joffrey Baratheon.

As to who did…

Willas admires the Imp. He is smart, balancing both a kindness and a cunning that his sister lacks. But if losing his head meant protecting the identity of the woman who Willas is nearly certain dropped the Strangler into Joffrey’s chalice…

Is he this petty? To sentence an innocent man to die so that his lady wife will finally let this sleeping dog lie and allow herself to be borne away from the city he so despises?

To sentence an innocent man to die to spite his golden brother, whose tears would be even sweeter than his sister’s smile?

Willas is Olenna Redwyne’s grandson.

The answer is yes.

 

 

“Sister,” Willas says, beckoning to Margaery. “I need a favor.”

Margaery comes, smiling that sweet smile of hers. “Of course, Willas. What can I do?”

Willas considered asking Garlan, who he is quite positive could beat Jaime in armed combat without breaking a sweat. But Willas does not want to beat Jaime in combat.

There is no honor defeating a cripple, after all.

Anyway, Garlan is too kind, too just. He likes the Imp too much. Margaery is cloaked in layers where Garlan lies bare.

Willas needs someone with a little deception in her smile.

 

That night, the Red Keep has scarcely settled into sleep when Margaery’s screams shatter the silence. “Tommen!” she shrieks. “His Grace!”

When Willas hobbles to the door and throws it open, Margaery is half-collapsed in the doorway to her room, held up by Loras. “What is it?”

Cersei throws open her door. Willas is not surprised that Jaime does not share her bed this night. He wonders what excuse the white knight gave his queen. “What about Tommen?” she says, fear lending her a fragile beauty where normally there is only hard ice.

“I dreamed - I dreamed -” Margaery sobs. “I dreamed the Imp came through the walls and slit his throat! It was so real!”

“A dream,” Ser Boros assures her. “Nothing more.”

“Check his room,” Cersei snaps.

“Yes, your Grace.” A pair of Kingsguard go trotting up the hall, armor clanging. They return a moment later. “Safe and sound.”

Cersei sags with relief.

“It was so real,” Margaery says, still weeping.

“A dream, Margaery,” Willas says, coming forward to stroke her hair.

“But it was so real,” Margaery says again, eyes glassy with fright. “He was so cold, so pale… His body was so still on the funeral bier.”

Cersei pales once more, no doubt reliving the grief of her older son’s death, the image of his blackened face flashing behind her eyes. “Double Tyrion’s guard,” she snaps to the Kingsguard. “I want you and you standing vigil.” She points to Ser Meryn and Ser Boros. “Let your eyes never leave him.”

“Yes, your Grace,” Ser Meryn says, and he and Ser Boros make their way down to the black cells.

Loras turns to meet eyes with Willas - too obvious. The boy doesn’t have Olenna’s wits.

But Margaery, sweet Margaery… She weeps still as they put her back to bed, and when Ser Boros comes blustering back upstairs to reveal that Tyrion’s guard lay drugged and unconscious - why, even Willas is not sure if her fainting spell is feigned.

 

 

In the morning, Willas stands still and silent as a bound and gagged Tyrion is led to the executioner’s block. He does not speak a word as Cersei clutches his arm, something like lust flashing through her eyes as the sword swings down.

When he brings his gaze up and sees Ser Jaime’s bleak expression, he only gives a grim nod of commiseration.

He does not smile until he turns away where no one can see the triumph in his eyes.

He is Olenna’s grandson, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

They let her stay for her son’s wedding, at the very least.

The little bitch who would call herself queen smiles and calls Cersei _Mother_ at the table, and it is all Cersei can do not to laugh herself sick. Instead, she drinks, and drinks, and when Jaime’s hand comes to rest on her thigh under the table, she spreads her legs and lets him fuck her with his fingers until she almost forgets.

When he fucks her for real that night, he is feverish with need, clutching her close in a way that would normally feel stifling. But Cersei finds her squeezing him back just as tightly, and she calls his name aloud, almost wanting her husband to hear.

It is only the thought of the Tommen’s crown, and how precariously it perches on his golden curls, that holds her tongue.

 

 

In the morning, no amount of stalling keeps the wagons from being filled, and Cersei stands at the window and looks out over her kingdom for what could be the last time.

Not if she has a choice in the matter. Margaery may have happily skipped from one husband to his brother, but with one of the younger Tyrells married already and the other wearing his white cloak, the only tie that binds Cersei to Highgarden is Willas himself.

And, well… Cripples die every day. Who knows, the boy could slip, fall, drown, choke… There are so many ways for a boy to die, even in the moments where he feels the most secure.

Joffrey is proof of that. Her little lion cub, defiant even as he choked.

Cersei is a lion too. Highgarden cannot keep her caged for long. She was born to roar these witless beasts into submission. Margaery Tyrell would be trampled by the stampedes that Cersei effortlessly navigates.

But still, for all her certainty, Cersei cries when she bids her son farewell.

“But why are you leaving, Mother?” he says, clutching at her as she smooths her hand over his golden curls, so soft. He is soft all over, her boy. Nothing like his father, and nothing like her.

She wishes she knew herself. “Because I must,” she says.

“A woman’s place is in her husband’s home,” Tywin says from behind her. “Lord Willas hails from Highgarden.”

“You would love Highgarden, your Grace,” Margaery tells Tommen, smiling brilliantly at him until he gives a tremulous smile back. “The grandest castle I have ever seen, surrounded by fields of golden roses as far as the eye can see. The sweetest peaches you have ever tasted, practically dropping from the trees into your lap.”

“Yes, and unicorns prance through the gardens, and they dine on rainbows and moonlight,” Cersei said, smiling brittlely.

WIllas coughs on a laugh, even as Tommen says, “Unicorns?”

The awful witch woman, the Queen of Thorns, comes tottering into the room. Cersei swears she acts frailer with every passing day. “Why do we tarry? Long road back to Highgarden.”

“One more moment,” Cersei said. She kisses Tommen’s hair, breathing him in deeply. “Be brave, my little lion. Be strong, and do not fear. There are no specters in the darkness who could dim your brightness. You are the king, and kings do not fear shadows.”

Tommen clings to her, and she hopes that his sobbing masks her own tears.

“Come,” Tywin says, all too soon. “You must be off.”

Unwillingly, Cersei draws away from her son. When she turns to the door, Willas stands aside to let her pass, eyes respectfully downcast.

This spineless craven. Cersei will break him into pieces. Cersei will shatter him beyond repair.

 

 

As they near the castle walls, Willas reaches up and snags a peach from a tree as they pass it, flipping it to Cersei. “The gardens are yonder,” he said, gesturing. “You’ll find the unicorns there.”

Despite herself, Cersei snorts.

Willas grins as he selects a peach for himself. He rides well, back straight and gait smooth. It is easy to forget his impairment until he is back on the ground, hobbling with that cane.

Cersei has had time to watch him. They had offered her a place in the wheelhouse, but she would be damned if she trapped herself in a room with that thorny bitch for so many days on end.

Besides, she needs to learn her husband. Learn his wants and his habits, learn what she can use to make him fall. Unfortunately, she has not seen it yet. Never has she known a man so seemingly without sin.

But all men have their vices. She simply hasn’t found his.

“You like it here,” she says, letting her mare drift closer to his, so she can look up at him from under her eyelashes. “More than King’s Landing.”

“To tell it true, I cannot see how anyone likes King’s Landing,” Willas says. “Look around you and tell me you prefer your Red Keep to this.”

Cersei turns her head, eyes skimming over the colorful barges making their lazy way up the river, the sunlight dappling through the trees, the fields of golden roses - indeed, as far as the eye can see. “I can see the appeal, I suppose.”

“You will learn to love it,” Willas says confidently.

“Oh, will I,” Cersei says, amused. “Well, my Lord, I hate to say, I could cross Westeros nine times over and I will never love anywhere half so much as the Rock.”

“Tell me about that,” he says, turning to her, his eyes intent and interested.

She purses her lips, uninterested in making trite conversation with her nitwit husband.

“I have never been, but I have heard it is incomparable,” Willas says.

Cersei shrugs. “Some would say.”

Willas shrugs back. “Personally, I find descriptions of it uninspiring.”

“Uninspiring?” Cersei works her jaw. “It is a fortress like no other, thrice taller than that Wall Northron men love to boast of. The rock of its very walls is flecked with gold. Inside, the tunnels are a web that a man could spend his life learning, and outside, the caverns have a beauty that your fields of roses could never match. No, we do not have your marble colonnades, but our castle has never been conquered. More than I can say of yours, _Lord Tyrell_.”

He’s smiling. Why is he smiling?

“You tricked me,” Cersei says.

“No, my Lady,” Willas says, but he is laughing. “I am duly inspired.”

Cersei tosses her hair and looks away.

“I mean it,” Willas says, now soft and low with sincerity. “I should love to see it. It sounds magnificent.”

“It is,” Cersei says.

Willas watches her. “Your Rock is stone to its core.”

“Stone and gold,” Cersei says. She meets his eyes. _As am I._

She does not need to say it aloud. He is thinking it as well.

 

 

The women of Highgarden are each more simpering and vapid than the last.

“It is a great honor meeting you, Lady Cersei,” the fat Meadows woman says.

“Quite,” Cersei says, smiling.

“My Lady, we grieved to hear of the awful deed done to the King,” Becca – Bessa? Beth? The Caswell woman – says, reaching out to take Cersei’s hand.

Cersei pulls her hand away. “As well you should have.”

“The Imp always was an odd one, but who would have thought him to be a Kingslayer?” Olenna says, selecting a plum from a bowl at the center of the table. “Must run in the family.”

Cersei presses her lips together.

“Just for the men, of course,” Olenna says. “We women haven’t got the constitution for it.”

Cersei’s eyes narrow.

“Grandmother, we really must find some means of dulling your tongue,” Willas says, unexpectedly appearing by Cersei’s side. Strange, how he is able to do that even with that ungainly crutch of his. “Though you may find the Lady Lannister is more than able to fight back.”

“Oh, no doubt,” Olenna says.

“One doesn’t wear the crown of Westeros for so long without learning to wield its weapons,” Willas says, flashing Cersei a quick, warm smile. “But Grandmother, you asked me to escort you to the gardens to make sure they were kept up to your satisfaction in our absence?”

“Oh, yes,” Olenna says, rising.

Cersei watches them totter off.

Lady Beesbury gives a – frankly, irritating – coo. “You have a kind husband, Lady Cersei. There are many women in Highgarden who would…” She trails off, apparently not too foolish to read the flash in Cersei’s eyes for the threat it is.

They can have him, she wants to say. “He is kind indeed,” she says.

One of the women rises – a lovely, shapely woman with large, dark eyes. “And he is a lucky man to have a beauty such as yourself.”

With a shock, Cersei remembers her from King’s Landing. “You spoke at the trial,” she says. “You saw my – the Imp put something in Joff’s cup.”

“Yes, my Lady,” the woman says. “Lord Merryweather and I seek only to serve His Grace… and House Tyrell.”

Cersei takes note of the order of her words.

“I should love to show you around Highgarden, if you have not already had a tour,” Lady Merryweather says. “I wish for your time here to be a pleasant one.”

Cersei takes note again, of the way she treats it as a given that Cersei’s stay in Highgarden is temporary. She smiles. “I would appreciate that, Lady…”

“Taena,” the woman supplies.

Cersei kisses her cheek. “I think we will be very good friends.”

Taena’s smile gleams of sin.

Cersei commits her findings to memory. Yes, the women of Highgarden are each more vapid than the last, but for one.

 

 

Life is not so dull at Highgarden as she feared, but still there are times when Cersei finds herself wandering and thinking of King’s Landing. She wonders about Tommen - has that little cunt filled his ears with her poison already? Cersei prays that Jaime protects him until Cersei’s return, and that Tywin teaches him what it means to be a true lion.

Her wanderings take her to the innermost walls, and she climbs the winding steps until she makes her way to the very top of the highest tower. She passed some guardsmen along the way, but here she is alone, and she walks to the window and looks out onto the footpath far below. Cold, hard stone.

“I wouldn’t advise it,” she hears from behind her.

She gives a start, spinning. Willas sits there, tucked away in a corner where she had not been able to see him from the door. “Are you following me?”

“Flattering that you think I could,” Willas says. “You have a quick stride.”

Cersei gathers her composure, flustered. “What would you not advise, my Lord?”

“Jumping,” Willas says. “At this height, you might not die. Just cripple yourself - and wouldn’t we be a pair then.”

“I was not going to jump,” Cersei says.

“But you were thinking about it,” Willas counters.

“Doesn’t everyone? Those niggling thoughts that you always have but will never act upon.” Cersei said. “Is there not some small part of you that imagines the fall whenever you look out over a cliffside?”

Willas smiles. “There is, I suppose. Not so large as the part of me that wants to smash every wineglass I see over the edge of the table, just to see it shatter.”

“You too?” Cersei says, and she laughs.

Willas stares at her, lips parted.

Cersei touches her cheek. “Why do you stare?”

“I…” Willas shakes his head, like a dog coming in from the rain. “Nothing.” He rises, nudging aside the easel before him to cross the small space to her. “How do you like the view?”

She looks out the window. “I prefer King’s Landing.”

“Do you?” Willas says, sounding amused and unsurprised.

She scowls at him. “Blackwater Bay,” she says. “I like to look out over the sea.”

“We are not so far from the Sunset Sea,” he says. “Would you like to go there?”

Cersei looks at him. “Oh, how marvelous that would be!” she says archly. “The Sunset Sea is such a novelty to me.” Does the dolt forget where she grew up?

“I thought you might wish to take a sea voyage,” he says, unruffled by her derision. “It is a quicker route to Sunspear than by land.”

Surprised, her breath catches in her throat. Sunspear. Myrcella. “I thought I was meant to stay in Highgarden,” she says. “A woman’s place is beside her husband, my Lord.” A sneer crosses her lips.

“A marriage is a partnership,” Willas says, leaning against the windowsill next to her and looking out over the city. “You should see your daughter.” He looks over at her. “Highgarden will manage without us for a month or two.”

He speaks like no man Cersei has ever met. A Lord should be bold, she considers telling him, the way she might instruct Tommen. Willas certainly seems as much a boy as her son sometimes. But can she really be surprised, when he was raised by the bumbling oaf Mace Tyrell and his witch of a mother? Small wonder the boy has no pride.

That, and… “I would like to see her,” she says. “Very much.”

Smiling, Willas looks back out the window.

 

 

“Oh!” Leonette says, pausing in the doorway. “My apologies, I didn’t realize you were…”

Cersei smiles at her. “No, come in.” She adjusts her skirts as she stands. “I was just leaving.”

The medicine woman curtseys to them both.

“But goodsister, so nice to see you out and about in the town,” Leonette says. “I trust you are finding everything to your liking?”

“Oh, yes,” Cersei says, trailing her fingers over the white roses that wind around the doorway. “Are you here for a potion to make you fertile?”

“I am,” Leonette says, looking down with a sweet blush. “Garlan and I… And yourself, my Lady?”

“The very same,” Cersei says. “I am not so young anymore, and I do not know how many good years I have left to bear Willas an heir.”

“Oh, that’s nonsense,” Leonette says. “You and I could be sisters.”

Cersei’s smile tightens. The girl had bright eyes but tiny teats, and crooked teeth.

“I only mean…” Leonette says.

“Your flattery is appreciated,” Cersei says. She kisses Leonette’s cheek, tucking the little packet of sweetsleep more securely into a hidden fold of her dress. “I will see you later this eve, goodsister. Good luck with your…” She cast her gaze down Leonette’s bodice.

“And you as well, my Lady,” Leonette says, smiling. Her eyes did have a pretty shine.

Cersei’s smile dropped as she left. The girl was too brainless to be suspicious, but still, Cersei would need be careful when she slipped her gentle killer into Willas’ food. The herb-woman had handed over the sweetsleep and moon tea too easily to be trusted, as well – she would need to be dealt with.

This was easier in King’s Landing, but since when had Cersei minded a challenge? She had endured Robert for so many years, she could endure Willas for a little longer. Perhaps she should wait until after seeing Myrcella, anyway.

For now, just knowing that she had the means was enough.

 

 

Vortimer Crane paces among his young charges. “What is the best defense for a knight against an axe-wielding Ironborn?”

“A lance!” his trainees shouted.

“Against a Dothraki screamer?”

“A lance!”

“Against a giant from the North?”

“A lance!”

“Against a charging line of foot soldiers?”

“A lance!”

At her writing desk, Cersei snorts.

Willas looks up from his own desk across from her. “You disagree?”

“I should like to see a knight with a lance face off against a squadron of foot soldiers bearing pikes,” Cersei says. “The Dothraki have a name for that. Lunch on a spit.”

Willas laughs. “Every weapon has its weaknesses,” he says.

“I suppose,” Cersei says. “Still, there is something to be said of an oaf with a warhammer.”

Willas’ grin is warm and bright, and Cersei can’t help but smile back. “Aye, there is,” Willas says. “So if you could choose one weapon for combat, it would be your late husband’s hammer?”

Cersei considers this. “One weapon?”

Willas nods.

“A warhorse,” Cersei says.

He raises his eyebrows. “Even though you were the one stating its weakness against infantry manned with pikes?”

“Every weapon has its weaknesses,” Cersei says. “A warhorse has fewer than any other. And properly trained…”

“Do you like horses?” Willas says, eager, and sweet with it. Those bright eyes. “I raise them.”

“Yes, I have heard,” Cersei says. “Breaker of horses.”

Willas blushes a little. “If you should like one…”

“An expensive offer, my Lord.” Cersei sips from her wineglass. “A prize warhorse can be worth…”

“Up to 200 dragons,” Willas says. “But I raise gentler mounts as well. Come see my stables. You might take a liking to one.”

Cersei smiles, tilting her head so that her hair catches the sun just right, the art of enticing a second nature to her by now. “And if I want a warhorse?”

“Then you may have one, of course,” Willas says.

Cersei raises her eyebrows. “You would give me one?”

“A woman who knows so much of battle can own whatever horse she likes,” he says. “I have no doubt you’d take a warhammer to my skull if I sought to tell you otherwise.”

Robert would have laughed himself sick at the request. Even Jaime would have smirked – and had, when he had heard her begging Tywin.

Tywin had refused, of course. A warhorse would be wasted on a woman, he had said.

“A warhammer?” she says. “How dare you, my Lord? I am a _lady_.” She tosses her hair.

That makes him laugh, and to her surprise, she joins him in it.

 

 

“You have a lovely figure.”

Cersei looks over her shoulder and bites her lip to keep from sneering. “Thank you, Grandmother.” She turns back to the window and resumes braiding her hair, fingers working quick and nimble through the strands.

“Impressive, after three children,” Olenna says, undaunted by her lack of response. “Why, after my three, my body had turned plump as a pear. But you could pass for a maid of 20.” She pauses. “Well, 30.”

Cersei purses her lips. “Thank you, Grandmother.”

“So proper,” Olenna says, cackling. She sits at Cersei’s side. “Also like a maid. Surprising - if there was one thing I ever liked about you, your Grace, it was how sharp you kept your tongue. A weapon wielded well and often.”

Has there ever been a person Cersei loathed half so much? Even her sweet bitch of a granddaughter is not so awful as she. “You need not refer to me as a maid,” she says. “We both know it has been some time since I wed Robert and lost the right to call myself that.”

Olenna laughs even harder at that. “Oh, you are amusing, girl. Yes, some time since you lost your maidenhead - to Robert, of course.”

“Of course,” Cersei says, smiling sweetly.

“But you may as well be maiden,” Olenna says. “Igon tells me Willas’ chambers are still and silent every night. You have had babes in the past, surely you need no instruction on how they are made.”

Cersei’s smile tightens. She would dearly love to strike the smug smile from this evil woman’s face. “I have been grieving -”

“Oh, indeed,” Olenna says. “I do not seek to rush you. Merely a comment, sweet child.”

“Your point is taken,” Cersei says. Her fingers fumble her braid, the leather band giving her difficulty.

“I make no accusations,” Olenna says, clearly enjoying herself. “I am sure you want another child. After all, what use is a husband if not to give you one?” She looks shrewdly at Cersei.

Cersei may have to kill her before she knocks off Willas, at this rate. The idea is not an upsetting one.

“No use at all, I feel,” Cersei says, smiling.

“Indeed,” Olenna says.

 

 

So Cersei slips on a sheer nightgown and a cloak over it and makes her way through the halls of the castle that night, thankful that her rooms are close to Willas’. She has put this off as long as she could, but Olenna is likely not the only Tyrell asking questions, and she had known this day was coming.

Of course, she does not want a child from him, but moon tea is easily come by and her husband’s family need never know. She needs to keep up the illusion, as she has for so many years before.

A guard stands in her way, and he stretches his arm in front of the door. “State your business.”

Cersei lowers the hood of her cloak. “Must I?” she says.

Recognizing her, the guard pulls his arm back with a smile. “Of course not, my Lady. As you were.” He opens the door for her.

She flashes him a smile, her eyes hooded, and slips inside.

Willas sleeps rather adorably, she finds, limbs flailed out, half the covers thrown off him though the night air is cool. As she watches, he gives a wordless murmur and flops his arm over.

She stands at the edge of the bed and looks at him for a moment, wondering. Her husband is not unattractive - he has a surprisingly muscular figure, dark curls, those bright, intelligent eyes. At the very least, his looks will not be what make this unpleasant. And he is no Robert, too massive to bear even before he grew fat and corpulent with age.

It occurs to her for the first time to wonder why he has never sought his way into her bed. Does he not find her appealing? The idea is as laughable as it is insulting. This cripple, thinking her beneath him.

Perhaps he finds his pleasure elsewhere. She has experience with whoremongering husbands. Or perhaps he shares the same tastes as his younger brother - but she would have heard rumors, by now.

Whatever the reason, she is not worried. All men have their vices. She will make herself his.

She eases the cloak from her shoulders and it falls to the ground in a heap. Then she climbs onto his bed, taking care not to jostle his limbs as she crawls over him. Gently, so gently, she lowers her body and presses herself flush against his side, amused when he doesn’t awaken.

Jaime would have been awake by then. All parts of Jaime would have been awake by then.

Cersei trails her fingertips up his side, watching as gooseflesh rises in their wake. “Darling,” she murmurs. “You need to be awake for this part.”

A frown creases his face and he tries to roll over, though her weight pins him in place.

Cersei has to bite back a laugh. He is, in truth, very sweet.

“I said _wake up_ ,” she says, and grabs his cock through his light linen breeches.

Willas’ eyes fly open and he looks down at her and gives a rather unmanly squeak. Not quite the response she expects when climbing into a man’s bed.

“Cersei?” he says. “What in the Seven Hells…?” He scrambles to sit up, sending her sliding into his lap.

“You are a man grown, are you not?” Cersei says, and she rearranges herself, straddling his thighs and bracing both palms against his chest, pushing him down onto his back once more. “Surely you know what it means when a woman visits her lord husband in the night.”

“I know, but I did not expect -” He stares up at her, eyes wide.

Cersei tilts her head the slightest bit, sending her hair spilling over her shoulder and pooling at the divot between her breasts. Willas’ gaze drops, and he swallows.

“You know?” she says. “How do you know? From your books, my scholarly husband?” She walks her fingers up his chest.

His gaze is full of heat as he watches her hand. No, he is nothing like his youngest brother. “I know enough,” he says.

Cersei laughs, bell-like and amused. “Do you? Do you know? Or do you _know_?” She slides her hand down and palms at his cock through his breeches, smirking as he bucks against her touch.

“I know enough,” he says again, voice growing strained. “My Lady…”

“Ooh, I like that,” she says. “My Lord.” She delves her fingers under the loose waistband of his breeches, wrapping them around his cock and giving it a few deft strokes, making him curse and writhe under her hand.

“Please, Cersei,” he gasps out, “do not tease me, I have waited long for -” He bites his lip.

Cersei has always loved robbing men of their wits, but seeing Willas’ silver tongue fail him is exquisite. “I am not a tease, darling,” she says, and begins to divest him of his clothing, helped by his eager - if fumbling - hands. “Teases are maiden brides who blush and simper at the sight of such a fine cock as yours.”

He tosses his head back, groaning from deep in his chest as she frees him from the last of his garments and slides back into his lap, letting the tip of his cock tease at the hot slickness of her cunt.

“Your wife is no maiden,” she tells him. “If you were wise, you would be glad of that.”

“Cersei, I beg you,” he chokes out, and she rewards him by spreading her thighs and lowering herself so his cockhead eases inside - but only for a moment, before she lifts off once more.

“Begging,” she purrs. “I like that.”

“You claim not to be a tease, but -” He gives a strangled shout as she does it again, and again, the muscles of his neck standing out in stark relief as his body arches under her. “You are, the gods, you are!”

“What do you want, darling?” she says, holding herself over him, enjoying the ruddy flush taking over his chest. “Tell me.”

He stares up at her, trapped by her words more than her weight. The gods, she loves this.

“If you ask it of me, I will give it to you,” she says. “Tell me what you want.”

“You - I want you,” he says. He finally touches her, anchoring his large hands on her thighs. “You.”

Cersei looks around, lips pouted innocently. “I am here, aren’t I?”

“I want -” He swallows. But he loses his nerve before the words can come. “Take off your gown.”

“Whatever my husband desires,” Cersei says, and strips off her gown, leaving her bare over him.

She has been wanted by men before. She has taken men into her bed who watch her with lust in her eyes. But he watches her like Jaime does in moments such as these - like she is the Maiden come to life under his hands. Like she is a goddess, and he a septon whose only purpose is to revere her.

She likes that.

“Tell me what you want,” she repeats. “I will give it to you.”

Willas blushes, those dark eyes so bright against those flushed cheeks. Her pious husband. Just as she thought - she will be his first taste of vice. He will learn to drink it from her lips.

“Your cunt,” he finally says, whispering the words. “Please, I need - to be inside you, I need to fuck you, can I, please?”

“So polite,” she teases, and takes his cock in one smooth slide, all the way down. It’s easy, because she is wet just from this, having him prone beneath her, hearing him beg.

It’s good. She tries not to show how much, but it is, _godly_ good, the feel of him so deep inside her. She has always enjoyed being on top, and he is beautiful underneath her, his muscles coiled and trembling, ready to surge up - but only at her command. Good.

“Can I?” he gasps out, as she moves over him. His fingers dig into her hips. “Let me…”

“Do it,” she says.

Instantly, he moves. And whatever assumptions she made, the boy has done this before, the way he knows how to work his hips. He plants his feet against the mattress and lifts her body with his, moving her with him in rolling waves, so long and deep.

Her breath hitches, and she drops her head forward and plants her palms on his chest, her hair hanging in a perfumed curtain before her face. She moves her hips in time with his, and the boy catches her rhythm effortlessly, fucking up into her in perfect sync, his cock pressing every pleasure spot she has.

“Gods,” she says, almost irritated by how gods-damned good this is. He was not meant to affect her like this. “Gods!” she says, when he reaches between her legs and seeks out that little nub, building her desire from a flame to an inferno, making her clutch and flutter around him.

After that, all rhythm is lost, the two of them moving against each other with graceless need. He snaps his hips up, breathing raggedly, lost in his pleasure. But he chokes out her name when he spills inside her, clutches her close - she owns this boy, wholly and completely.

Cersei clamps her thighs tight around him, crying out and shuddering, her whole body, head to foot.

She has taken other men to bed besides Jaime before, but none of them have ever made her come.

Well, so be it. She will need find another first-and-only for Jaime - this one is no longer his to claim.

 

 

Cersei murmurs her contentment as Willas combs his fingers through her hair. He touches her nowhere but there, and his fingers work over her scalp just shy of too rough. It’s perfect.

It strikes her, not for the first time, how intuitive her husband is.

“Feels good,” she says, when he pauses.

Willas chuckles. “You are a lioness,” he says. “The way you enjoy being groomed.”

“Yes, my mother used to say…” Cersei trails off. When was the last time she had spoken of Joanna? When was the last time she had even thought of her?

Recognizing her discomfort, Willas rolls up onto his flank and props himself up on his elbow. “You are very beautiful,” he says, in a change of subject she wholly approves of.

“I know,” she says, and squirms as he trails his free hand down her body, firm and confident, stroking her the way Jaime always has and Robert never learned.

He laughs and idly thumbs at her teat. “And so humble, too,” he teases. “But I mean to say, you are an easy woman to make love to. It is a pleasure, having you in my bed.”

She groans as he skims his fingers all the way down her, dipping between her legs. Despite herself, she can feel herself growing wet between her folds. “I should hope so,” she manages.

He slides one finger into her, already slick with his seed. “And if you feel the same way, I have a proposition for you.”

“Oh?” she says, and cries out as he presses his thumb to her nub, a sudden pulse of hot desire washing over her.

“I am not the man you love,” he whispers, watching her, as fixed and hungry as a predator. “And you have nothing to gain from sharing my bed - your cunt holds no power over me.”

Cersei bites her lip, trying not to whine as he circles his thumb over her nub in rhythm with his finger, which he rocks in and out of her smoothly.

“But if love and power are not the only reasons to spread your lovely legs - if pleasure is reason enough to share my bed…” He moves between her legs, as smooth and quick as a snake striking. She would not have called her husband particularly graceful before now, but there is elegance in the way he shoulders her legs apart. “You should know, you are always welcome here.”

He drops to his belly and buries his face in her dripping cunt, devouring her without hesitation.

As she tosses her head back and cries out for him, Cersei has to admit - his argument is a convincing one.

 

 

Cersei turns her head at a flicker of movement from the corner of her eye. “Goodbrother,” she greets, sipping from her wine.

Garlan sits next to her, feet dangling off the edge of the barge, like hers. “Lemon ice?” he offers.

Cersei takes the cup he holds out. “Thank you.”

“You are very kind,” Garlan says, casting a gaze behind her, where two of his young cousins are giggling as they plait Cersei’s hair.

“They won me with flattery,” Cersei says, sighing. “You Tyrells have a way with it.”

“Oh, I’m sure they only spoke the truth,” Garlan says. “You have to know that your hair catches the eye.”

“I do know,” Cersei says.

“I hope your children with Willas inherit your golden curls the way your children with Robert did,” he says.

She looks at him from under her eyelashes, gauging his intent. If he were his brother, she would be reading into the layers of meaning inherent, but Garlan has never had Willas’ silver tongue – at least, that she has seen. “Yes,” she finally says, slowly. “As do I.”

“Not everyone can wear a golden crown so well,” Garlan says.

She pauses again, uncertain. Damn these Tyrells. “Yes,” she says. “Some are more suited than others, it is true.” She gives her head a little flick so a lock of her golden curls falls before her face, though it is soon captured back into submission by her earnest hairdressers.

He spoons some lemon ice into his mouth with the little wooden spoon. “I have a question, while I have you,” he says.

“Ask it,” she says.

“Margaery writes to me,” he says. “She is having difficulty juggling her tasks as Queen, so much so that she has difficulty sleeping at night.”

Of course she is. Brainless little cunt.

“It’s a challenging dance, she says. Charming the right people – tact, diplomacy, wit, charm, intelligence… But you managed it so gracefully for five-and-ten years. So I have a question for you.”

“You would like advice to pass onto your sister?” Cersei asks. _Give up now, before she loses this game of thrones._ But watching the girl flail is pleasant in its own way.

“No,” Garlan says. “Well, perhaps. But my real question is, why?”

Cersei frowns. “Why what?”

“Why do people seek that throne?” Garlan says. “When is the last time the King of the Seven Kingdoms died in his sleep, happy and safe, surrounded by those he loves?”

“That isn’t the point,” Cersei says, astounded by his naivety. Each of Willas’ siblings is thicker than the last. And she had thought Loras to be witless.

“Then what is?” Garlan blinks at her, guileless. “What is this draw of power that bewitches and beguiles so? I would rather be a second son in Highgarden than wear the crown of King’s Landing. Here I have a good wife, a sharp sword, sweet peaches, a warm bed… What is the power of that Iron Throne?”

“Some men are not cut out for power,” Cersei says. “A lion cannot fight its place as king of beasts.”

“So it is an obligation,” Garlan says. “Rather than a desire.”

Cersei narrows her eyes at him, certain that she is being mocked. What mad question is that? Who would not desire the throne of Westeros?

“You must think me weak and witless,” he says, with half a smile. “Perhaps I am. I just wonder – did you enjoy it? Were you happy?”

“Yes,” Cersei says immediately.

“Happier than you are now?”

“Yes,” Cersei says, just as quickly.

Garlan watches her, unsettlingly solemn. Her hairdressers tie off her plait with a strip of leather and run off to find another source of entertainment, leaving them alone, in the silence.

“Then I will pass that along to Margaery,” he finally says. “That it is possible to be happy living constantly in fear for your life and the lives of your children, being harangued and badgered at every turn, being disrespected and discounted, being a slave to the crown.”

“A slave?” Cersei’s mouth drops. “A queen is slave to no man.”

“A queen is slave to her kingdom,” he says. “Her duties. You saw what that crown did to Robert.”

“Robert was no true king,” Cersei says.

Garlan shrugs. “As you say. But I repeat – I would not trade my status as second son for the crown of Westeros. I prefer freedom.”

“Some men are not cut out for power,” Cersei repeats stiffly.

“Too true,” Garlan says. He stretches. “Anyway, I must agree with my sister – I found sleep difficult to come by in the Red Keep. But if you say that it can be done, I am sure Margaery will be pleased to hear it.” He bows and leaves.

Cersei purses her lips. Robert was no true king, and Margaery is no queen – a stag is prey, not predator, and even a stag feasts on rose gardens. The boy talks nonsense. Garlan clearly inherited his father’s weakness of will.

But truth be told, if she is being perfectly honest with herself… Cersei has never slept half so well as she has in Highgarden.

 

 

Cersei happens across Willas and Garlan speaking together in low voices, wide grins on their faces, though they turn to her with doe-like innocence in their eyes when they see her approach. But Willas is not as good a liar as he likes to think, and his hand drifts to his pocket before he can think to stop himself.

So she slips into his room that night - the guards know her so well that they merely stand aside at her approach - and digs into his breeches, pulling out a letter. She reads it under the moonlight by the window.

Then, lips tight, she forces herself not to crumple it and throw it in the fire.

Margaery’s words are as light and airy as the girl herself, prattling on about this and that, going on about her daily life with her cousins and friends. She speaks briefly of Tommen - despite herself, Cersei cherishes every word - and then ends on a line about Loras being offered the position of master-at-arms of the Red Keep.

Why Tywin let that wretched boy so close to Tommen is beyond her. And what Jaime was thinking! Those two idiots, letting the Tyrells close in around him like that. Just as she thought, they need her there. Her son needs her to look after him – these men are clearly incapable.

Loras Tyrell, erstwhile squire to Lord Renly. She had seen how tight the bounds grew between squires and the knights they served. The Knight of Flowers was no sort of man for any boy to emulate.

“You are upset.”

She looks up and finds Willas to be watching her, leaning back on his elbows.

“My Lord,” she begins.

“Was there anything in Margaery’s letter of insult?” he says. “I do not recall…”

She grinds her teeth. “Nothing at all,” she says. “But it pains me to read of my son’s life in King’s Landing without being there to see him grow.”

His expression thaws, and he looks at her with pity. Idiot, so trusting, easily taken by her lies. As gullible as Jaime.

She looks back at the letter. _I thought to offer him one of the kittens to choose, but he could not decide and took all three. He has named them Boots, Lady Whiskers, and Ser Pounce_.

Her throat grows tight.

“Come to bed,” he says softly.

At that moment, Cersei cannot stand to look at him, however different he looks from his siblings. His sister wears her rightful crown, his brother shares the White Sword Tower with Jaime. They both advise and guide Tommen, these rose-water cunts, and she rots in Highgarden far from everything that matters.

He sits up, holding out his hand. “Cersei…”

“My Lord, I am feeling weary this night,” Cersei says, tucking the letter back into his breeches. “I must beg your pardon.”

“Of course,” Willas says.

“Tomorrow,” she says, and leaves.

 

 

It is hard to find her footing in Highgarden. Hard to know who to trust – in King’s Landing, Lannister cloaks surrounded her, and she had Varys to whisper in her ear. But here she cannot trust the maids, the guards, the highborn folk who watch her and whisper behind their hands.

She is a queen without a crown, as she has not been for some five-and-ten years. For the first time, she regrets her arrangement with Lancel. Robert was a fool and a boor, but when he was alive, his throne was hers. Now her crown rests on the dull brown head of her new husband’s dim-witted sister. The irony does not escape her.

So then, it isn’t in Highgarden that she will wield her weapons.

 _Varys_ , she writes _,_ then pauses to think, sipping from a goblet of plumwine.

_I hear whispers in Highgarden, rumors that I am certain were never meant to reach my ears. I would never dare speak out against my husband’s family –_

She lets her hand tremble, so the ink winds spidery and uncertain over the parchment.

_But I fear my son may be in danger. Loras Tyrell, his master at arms, has been meeting with Northron men in the slums of King’s Landing. Bolton men. I fear what agreements are being made, I fear that Tommen’s life could be in danger._

_But my word against his – it means so little. Please, do not be rash. I so want to believe these rumors are lies. I want to trust Tommen’s life in the hands of his Kingsguard. Do not accuse without mustering evidence. I wish more than anything to trust Loras with my son._

_Find out everything you can._

Satisfied, she sits back with a smile. Varys will take care of the rest.

 

 

Cersei realizes it in the second month she misses her moon’s blood, when the first thing she does upon waking is grab for a chamber pot and empty her stomach.

After she finishes, she wipes her mouth and sits at the windowsill, thinking.

She didn’t act fast enough in killing Willas before he had a chance to put a babe in her belly. The moon tea didn’t work. Now she will need to rid herself of the child, then Olenna, _then_ Willas.

It all sounds so exhausting.

She rests her hand over her belly, still as flat as ever. When Robert’s seed took root in her, she was filled with loathing, disgust - she would have nightmares of babes with one green eye and one blue like her twisted brother, and wake up clawing at her stomach as if trying to carve the damned thing out herself. The process of having it removed had been such sweet relief.

When Jaime’s seed had filled her, it was love that had taken hold of her, just as strong. Her belly had been the most precious thing in the world, and she had been proud to bear it before her for the world to see.

Now, she feels… nothing. Nothing at all.

Perhaps she only had so much love to spare, and her three children had used it up. Perhaps she is too weary to loathe.

She puts the matter aside. No use fretting. She will find a woman in town to take care of it, but she must be careful not to be caught out in the process. She does not have Jaime to kill anyone who discovers her secrets anymore.

For now, she rises and goes to the door, asking her maid for some lemon water to rinse her mouth.

She can protect her own secrets now. WIllas and his witch grandmother need never know.

 

 

Cersei raises her eyebrows as she enters her room. “My Lord,” she says, irritated but trying not to show it. Willas has never entered her rooms before. She should have known better than to trust him to hold such discretion.

He looks up at her, expression grim. “I received word from my brother in the capital today.” He holds up a piece of parchment.

Cersei looks at him with open innocence, pleased at Varys’ efficiency. “Did you? How fares my son?”

“Your son is fine,” he says. “Read it.” He holds the letter out to her, and his expression is harsh but his hands are steady.

She takes it.

 _Brother, I am in need of you_. _I stand trial for treason against King Tommen. They say I have been meeting with Northron men in the slums – they say I have conspired against him._

_You know how far I would go to protect him. You know the lengths I have gone to._

_You know._

_Loras_.

She frowns, unsettled, something cold skittering down her spine. “What does he mean? _You know_.”

“My brother uncovered a plot that would indirectly endanger his Grace when I was in the capital,” Willas says. “Through his quick action, I was able to act to prevent the scheme from coming to fruition.”

“Why did I never hear of this?” Cersei demands. “Jaime never said –”

Willas looks at her, long and hard.

“What happened?” Cersei says, and for a moment, her hand hovers over her belly, for some gods-damned reason. She forces it down to her side before Willas could notice.

“Lord Varys and Lord Jaime conspired to free your brother from his cell before his execution,” Willas says. “I took steps to make sure that did not happen.”

Cersei’s insides turn to ice. Then flame. “Why did you not tell me?” she says, and it does not occur to her to distrust him.

“I thought –”

“ _How dare you_ _not tell me_.” She advances on him, full of fury, certain that she could break his neck and not regret it for an instant. “My son!”

“The imp was beheaded,” Willas says. “I thought it a lapse in judgment on Ser Jaime’s part –”

The betrayal that courses through her threatens to buckle her knees. Jaime. How could he? “He was going to free…?”

“You know he was fond of Tyrion,” Willas says. “Surely you knew.”

For months, Cersei has dreamed of returning to Jaime’s side, falling into his arms. Now she has other plans in mind for her lovely twin.

He hadn’t stayed that night, she recalls. Lord Commander business, he had said, fumbling one-handed to tie his cloak.

Her skin crawls. He touched her with that hand, then went to free their twisted, murderous brother from his cell. He was going to let her valonqar walk free. It may as well have been Tyrion’s hands roaming over her that night – though he had two of them, reaching out to wrap around her neck, to choke the life from her the same way he had choked the life from Joffrey.

She could kill him. Tyrion, Jaime, Varys… She could kill them all.

“I want the Spider dead,” she says. “I want Jaime discharged, and I want the Spider to hang.”

Willas leans forward in his seat, and she gives a start, having forgotten he was there.

“That,” he says, “can be arranged.”

 

 

Cersei watches Willas make his way around town, her arms full of the bundles that he does not have the free hand to carry. Her mind works quickly.

“Discretion has never been one of Loras’ virtues,” she says.

Willas looks over at her and smiles. “No,” he says. “Try though he might.”

“The letter he sent you…”

Willas sighs. “Yes, written with such intent, such confidence, as if I were privy to his secrets. I fear what the wrong reader might assume, so I am glad you and I were the only people to have seen it.” He hands her the reins of the horse he leads, taking a wrapped sword from her arms. “Bring this back to the castle’s armory when it has been sharpened and polished,” he tells the smith. “Your compensation will be as usual.” He takes back the reins as he leads her away.

Cersei thinks more. He knows that Varys would have intercepted the raven and read Loras’ letter. He would fear, rightfully, the clues that Varys might even now be piecing together – clues about who kept Tyrion from escaping that night.

It suits him to have Varys die as well. Especially suspecting as he might that Varys was the source behind Loras’ current predicament.

She wonders at Varys’ motivations. Why free Tyrion? Why sow the seeds of discord between the Lannisters and Tyrells – just because Cersei had asked him? Or did Varys have other motivation to drive a wedge between Casterly Rock and Highgarden?

“It might be better,” she says slowly, “if the capital has no reason to believe our marriage is a pleasant one.”

Willas beams, so proud of her – it warms and annoys her at the same time. This is not her first time playing the board. “It might,” he agrees. “It would suit me if Varys the Spider in King’s Landing had cause to think you and I were at odds.” He holds the reins of the stallion out to the farrier. “Thank you.”

“That can be arranged,” Cersei says.

He raises his eyebrows as he takes her last package, a thick ermine cloak with an unseemly spot on the collar. “So sure?”

“The Spider has his eyes in your court.”

Willas nods. “Aye, to be sure, though I have never gleaned which of the ladies he has whispering back to him. If –”

“Taena,” Cersei says.

Willas stops, eyes clouding over in thought. He blinks. “Ah,” he says, as if to himself. “I should have known…”

“I will give her reason to think you and I have quarreled,” Cersei says, smirking. Her husband is quick-witted, but not as much as he likes to believe. “The letter from Loras can be the cause – You will defend your brother to me, of course, but as any mother I will be concerned for the safety of my son.”

Willas nods. “Fair,” he says. “Though I do hope that whoever cast such aspersions against him thinks better of it soon.”

He does not look at her.

They reach the washerwoman, and Willas smiles and chats with her as he presents her with the cloak and instructs her on how quickly to have it back to him.

Cersei waits until they are a good distance away. “I suspect that the matter will resolve itself shortly.”

He glances at her, and she looks back at him, eyes steady.

Willas smiles.

 

 

For all his vows, Willas takes no action for sennights, and Cersei grows more impatient by the day.

Then the raven comes.

“Lord Varys, murdered?” Garlan says, mouth open. “Of all the sudden…”

Cersei furrows her brow, thinking.

“Yes, it’s quite surprising,” Olenna says. “He knew so much, one might expect him to have caught wind of his fate.”

“Knew too much, perhaps,” Willas says, swirling his wine in his goblet. “Still, what a shock. And I had expected him to outlive us all.”

“Who?” Igon says, perking up as he seats himself at the breakfast table and catches the end of Wilas’ statement.

“Varys,” Garlan answers.

“Varys, the Spider in King’s Landing…” Cersei says slowly, realization settling in.

She looks at Willas. The farrier. Willas had never actually given him an order as he handed over the reins, midway though speaking Varys’ name and title. _A prize warhorse can be worth up to 200 dragons –_ and without having to remove 200 dragons from the Highgarden coffers and risk questioning about it.

Willas takes her hand and brushes a kiss over her knuckles, his eyes twinkling. “Indeed.”

Garlan spoons some honey into his porridge. “Any other news?”

Maester Lomys nods, reading from the bottom of the parchment. “Aye – the Lord Commander has been sent to Riverrun to lift the siege, by order of the Queen.”

A torrent of emotion swirls through Cersei, an immediate terror that she swallows back. Without his hand, Jaime has no way to defend himself. Even that idiot Edmure Frey is a viable threat to a lion missing his paw.

 _Good_. Sweet satisfaction follows her instincive terror. Let this man swagger off to defeat, this stranger, this _traitor_. Put as much distance as possible between him and her children. And to think, she had once thought that arriving too late to save Joffrey had been his gravest of sins.

“The Queen?” Igon says. “What ills does Margaery wish on Ser – I mean, that is…” He trails off, conspicuously not meeting Cersei’s eye.

“I suspect there are more intrigues bubbling over in King’s Landing than we could ever imagine,” Willas says mildly. “Curious, though. Perhaps Loras has some idea why our sweet sister would have wanted Ser Jaime in the Riverlands.”

“Who better than the Lord Commander to protect the kingdom from would be usurpers?” Olenna says. “Good riddance, I say.” She dabs at her lips with a napkin. Then her shrewd eyes turn to Cersei. “But you are noticeably quiet, my Lady. Have you any suspicions about the dealings in King’s Landing?”

Cersei sips her wine. “How could I? I have been as far from the crown as you have.” Her voice comes clear and careless.

“Of course, but you know the Spider better than any of us, and it is your charming brother being spoken of…” Olenna looks expectant.

For a strange moment, Cersei is sure that Olenna means a different brother entirely, the crooked dwarf who haunts her nightmares. But he is dead, she reminds herself.

He is dead, and Jaime is lost to her forever, as much of a traitor as Tyrion. And now Varys is dead as well, and Jaime being sent far away. Tommen would be safe from harm.

Safe, in the court, surrounded by Tyrells, just what Cersei used to fear. But his own uncles were the ones to seek his doom, and Loras and Willas had prevented that harm from coming to pass. Margaery’s decree forced Jaime’s distance.

Cersei suddenly remembers a bedtime tale told by a gentle-voiced maester one night long ago, its details lost to the recesses of time. There was a sleeping princess, she recalls, and a hundred-year sleep, and a dense thicket of thorns protecting her, isolating her. Utterly alone, in her prison, her fortress.

A voice cuts through the fog of her mind. “Are you alright?” Willas trails his fingers over the inside of her wrist. “You look a thousand leagues away.”

Cersei looks up at him, and for a dizzying moment, she does not recognize the dark, kind eyes that meet hers.

“Fine, my Lord,” she says, and she rises. “I think I should like some fresh air.”

“Of course.”

She can feel him watching her leave.

 

 

Cersei has shattered every fragile object in the room by the time the guard at the door fetches Willas. He comes bearing a wine glass and a wary expression. “Alianne seemed grateful when I said I would bring you the wine you had requested,” he says. “I can see why.”

She looks up at him, sitting quite calmly in the center of the room, a lake of broken glass and marble and ceramic surrounding her, the handle of her broken hand mirror still clutched in her fingers. “Thank you, husband,” she says, reaching up. “So kind.”

He eyes the floor and winds a careful path through to her. “Are you… No, you are clearly not alright.”

“What makes you say that?” she says, draining the wine in a few gulps and then hurling the empty goblet into the wall.

“Cersei,” he says. “If this is not a cry for attention, I don’t know what is.”

She flushes, anger flooding her - and she had felt so calm and empty but a moment ago. “I am not crying out for attention,” she bites out. “You said it yourself. Sometimes the idea comes to you - the pleasure of destroying things just to watch them shatter.”

“I thought we were discussing niggling ideas that we would never bring to fruition,” Willas says. He sweeps the shards of glass off her table and sits on it. He has no choice, the chair lies in pieces across the floor.

“You might have been,” Cersei says. “I was not.”

“Clearly,” Willas says. “What ails you?”

She narrows her eyes.

“Something is clearly bothering you,” he says. “Tell me what it is.”

“Is that a command?” she asks.

“A plea,” he says. “Is this about Jaime? I thought you wanted him away from Tommen.”

“I do,” she says.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Willas says, and he stretches his hand out. “Let me help you.”

This is the final straw. Cersei gives a shriek of anger and stands, pacing through the wreckage, ignoring Willas’ wince at the crunch of ceramic beneath her shoes. “Help me? _Help_ me? You have done this to me!”

“Are we back to this?” he says, sounding weary.

She could kill him for less.

“I have done all that you asked of me –”

“This is not about Varys, or Jaime, or –“ Cersei slams her fist into the wall. “I am not a woman who softens and simpers at the sight of a babe. I will not be passed from house to house birthing heirs for the men who disregard me. And I will _not_ sit in Highgarden combing my hair and watching your sweet sister wear the crown that is rightfully mine. So what now? As if being a mother is enough to tame a lioness - what of my hunger, Willas? What of my wrath?”

He watches her, irritatingly calmly. If he weren’t on the other end of the room, she would slap him.

“You are with child, then?” he says.

Cersei blows out a long, angry breath.

“So kill it,” Willas says. “Kill the child, kill me. Go back to King’s Landing, kill your father, kill your son. Murder everyone until you are the only body left to sit the throne. And what then?”

To her surprise, there is rage in his eyes.

“Why do you want that blasted throne so much? What does it offer you? Security? Your son would argue that.” He stands, and she notices for the first time that he is taller than her by a good deal. “Power? Yes, enough power to gorge yourself with, your first husband would know. Respect?” He snorts. “Aye, to your face, no one would dare laugh at you.”

“I have done my time,” she says, steady and low. “I have waited long enough, I will not be cast aside.”

Willas gives a shout of wordless fury. “You are not the only person in Westeros whose dreams of greatness turn to ash, Cersei. Do you think your son ended his life on his terms? And your brother? What of Prince Oberyn, and Princess Elia, and Lyanna Stark - yes, those girls who took the life you are so convinced you had a right to. Does Elia’s crown suit her in the afterlife?”

“I fail to see your point,” she says, clenching her jaw.

“If you knew what you wanted, I would help you get it,” he says, moving towards her, his eyes stormy in a way she has never seen. “If sitting on that gods-damned throne would ever be enough, I would not rest until you wore the crown you desire so much. But you, Cersei - if I handed you that throne right now, you wouldn’t know what to do with it. You would grow as fat and miserable as Robert, as paranoid as Aerys, craving more and more and more, and waking yourself up with nightmares every night until they start creeping into your days as well.”

Cersei stared at him, so filled with fury it renders her speechless. How dare he? How dare he seek to take this from her?

“Do you think this is the life I wanted?” he says, and his voice loses its fervor. “Do you think I asked for this? Oh, you think marrying you was such a blessing for me - just as I always dreamed! A wife who loathes me, who would slit the throats of my sister and brother if I so much as glanced the other way, who would kill her own child if it meant freeing her of the chains that bind me just as tightly.” His jaw clenches.

“So what would you ask of me?” she says, her throat dry and rasping. “Should I pity you? Apologize and curtsey before my husband - I have done wrong by upsetting you, I am sure.”

Willas looks at her, long and hard. “If you were asking me that sincerely, I would ask for one thing. Give me my heir. Do what you will after - Prince Doran’s wife left him with their babes, you have precedent to do the same. Return to King’s Landing if you would. But leave me with the child you so detest.” He sighs. “But no, that is not your way. You prefer to snip off every loose end. Killing is a pleasure for you.”

“I couldn’t,” she says.

He scoffs.

“No, I… I tried.” Cersei walks to the window and looks out of it, unable to meet his dark eyes. “I went to a woman in town. But when it came to it, I could not issue the command.” She takes a deep breath. “This child binds me to Highgarden in ways that even you do not. I dream of holding a dark-haired babe, and it looks up at me with your sister’s smile. And yet…” She toys with the end of her braid. “I couldn’t.”

Willas is silent behind her.

“I am not a woman who softens and simpers just because I am with child,” she says. “I will not lose sight of my dreams. But I want this babe, however much it keeps me from _that crown I desire so much_.” Her lips twist around his words. “Scold me more, my Lord. Tell me what a selfish bitch I am, and how I will never be happy. But you will not take my child from me.”

She gives a start when his hand comes unexpectedly down on her shoulder. When she looks at him, she finds the same warmth in his dark eyes as normal, and…

It’s a bit irritating, how much that soothes her.

“Cersei, I would never,” he says. “If you love this child but half as much as I know you love your children now, I wouldn’t dream of taking him from you.”

Despite herself, she gives a smile, albeit a sour one. “You would be the first. The love I bear for Tommen and Myrcella and…” She swallows. “Love did not keep my children with me.”

“This child will,” Willas says, and he wraps his arms around her and pulls her against him, and she comes, willingly. “Let me treat you well, Cersei. It is all I have ever asked of you.”

“You do not know what you ask of me,” Cersei whispers, leaning back into him.

She feels him shrug. “Perhaps. I have killed for you, and I would do it again,” Willas says. He presses a kiss to her hair. “Maybe we can ask things of each other.”

Cersei has given away so much of herself already. It amazes it – it _galls_ her – that there is still more she can find in herself to give.

“Perhaps,” she whispers.

“We could spend half the year in Highgarden and half in King’s Landing,” he says. “Or you could return, and I could stay here, until Tommen is a man grown and is fit to wear his own crown. Or –”

She reaches back without looking and cups his cheek in her palm, and he falls silent. This man, this boy… he is nothing like Robert, nothing like Jaime – nothing like Rhaegar, or Stannis, or Ned Stark, or any other man she has met and loved and loathed.

He is Willas Tyrell, heir to Highgarden, brother to one Queen and husband to another, and soon to be father of Cersei’s children.

For the moment, that is enough.

“We’ll see,” she says, and turns her head, lifting her onto her toes as he leans down.

Their lips meet in the middle.


End file.
